A Happy Nightmare
by lissy303
Summary: Sherlock is worried about John's impending nuptials and where it will leave him. His subconscious gives him a bit of hope to grasp. Sherlolly fluffiness with some John/Sherlock friendship. Molly cooperated now, so chapter 3 is up and completed!
1. Sherlock

_A/N: Hello again! This one's a bit rough around the edges. The idea came to me and wouldn't leave until I sat down and got it out. I may come back to it later to polish it, maybe add a bit more. Then again, it's meant to a bit a bit rough. Enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, I wouldn't be writing on . I'd be writing for the BBC. But then Sherlock would be cancelled because I'm no where near the genius that is the actual writers. Just playing :)_

* * *

Sherlock rolled over, grumbling in his sleep. Something was waking him from his pleasant dreams. He couldn't remember what his dream had been about, but in his half conscious state, all he knew is that he desperately wanted to return to wherever his unconsciousness had taken him. But as he clinged to both the edge of his blanket and of dreamland, an unfamiliar scent wafted into his room, fully waking him up.

Pancakes.

He sat up in bed, slowly blinking and looking around his room. Why would he be smelling pancakes right now? Logical reasoning would tell him, of course, that someone was simply cooking breakfast in his flat. But that's where logic ended. The only other inhabitant in the flat had about as much cooking prowess as a toddler. While John's fiance, Mary, was a notably good cook, she had point blank refused to step foot in the kitchen in 221B, claiming that Sherlock's experiments would most likely poison whatever meal she made. Sherlock didn't refute that claim.

Occasionally, Mrs. Hudson would cook for them, but she always made everything in her own kitchen downstairs and bring the food up. The delicious smell that wafted through his room was far too strong to be coming from her kitchen; it had to be coming from his own.

He glanced towards his bedroom door, noting with surprise that it was left open. Not fully, but just a few inches. That was suspicious; Sherlock always slept with his door shut tightly, even on the nights John stayed at Mary's. It was habit, and Sherlock did not change his habits easily. The only logical conclusion was that someone opened it while he slept. Most likely the same someone who was cooking in his kitchen.

It wasn't Mrs. Hudson. It couldn't be John. Who was it?

Warily, Sherlock rolled out of bed and reached for his dressing gown. Whoever this intruder was, they clearly didn't mean any harm. They already had had plenty of opportunities to do damage to him while he slept, and they certainly would not be cooking breakfast. He only felt the bare wood of the stool where he normally tossed his robe. Glancing around, he realized his dressing gown was no where to be found.

A slight feeling of dread filled him. The only other person to have removed and worn his gown... _The Woman_. Could she be the strange inhabitant in his kitchen?

As quickly as the thought came to him, he dismissed it. He was sure Irene Adler had many... _skills_; however, he could hardly see cooking or anything domestic being one of them.

He silently opened his bedroom fully, trodding quietly out in his soft sleeping shirt and trousers. He rounded the corner and peeked into the kitchen. He immediately recognized the chef and dressing gown thief.

Molly Hooper.

She hadn't yet realized Sherlock stood there. She stood at the counter chopping fruit, quietly humming some tune to herself. She wore his dressing gown, and by his observations, little else. Her hair was braided to the side and was still slightly damp. Recently showered and wearing his clothes... she must have spent the night. Why would she have spent the night?

She caught Sherlock's form out of the corner of her eye and turned towards him. He expected her to jump, having been caught in a place where she didn't... _shouldn't_... belong. But as she smiled warmly at him, he felt that she did indeed belong there. She _should_.

"Morning, Sherlock," she said cheerfully, returning her gaze to the fruit in front of her. "Sleep well?"

He stood in his living room, staring into the kitchen, trying to piece together the site in front of him. Before he could accomplish any of that, something in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Resting on top of the mantle, where his skull was usually placed, was a stack of medical journals. Nothing regarding new technologies or practices in modern medicine, but about forensics, pathology, anatomy. A plush arm chair now sat across Sherlock's normal seat. The couch was different. There were new curtains on the windows. Nothing particularly feminine; the neutral colors still matched Sherlock's taste, but they were distinctly _Molly_.

For the first time, 221B felt... homey.

"I'm glad you're up," Molly continued, not noticing or ignoring the fact that Sherlock was acting oddly. "I was just about to make eggs. How would you like them?" She looked at him expectantly, waiting for his answer.

"Scrambled," he croaked, still not understanding why Molly was standing before him, making the two of them breakfast, wearing nothing but his dressing gown, in a flat that she had redecorated! He sat on his chair, wanting to enter his mind palace to recall how and why Molly was here, when something else on the mantle caught his attention. He stood up and grabbed the framed photo and looked at it closely.

It was John and Mary's wedding portrait.

_But they're not married yet!_ his mind screamed at him. The picture in his hand told a very different story. John and Mary stood together, he in his tux and she in her gown, in front of a large oak tree. Molly stood beside Mary, holding a small bouquet, while Sherlock stood next to his best friend. Sherlock stared at the four smiling faces, his own included, not remembering when this was taken at all.

Another photo stood behind where the wedding picture was. It was in a smaller and unadorned frame, as if it was trying to hide. Replacing the wedding photo its original place, he gently grabbed the smaller picture and held it close.

It was a close up of Molly and Sherlock's faces, in front of what appeared to be the Eiffel Tower. In the picture, Molly grinned widely, while Sherlock had his lips pressed to her temple. They looked so happy, so content. _He_ looked happy and content. More so than he ever remembered being.

"Can't believe it's been six months since then... seems like yesterday, doesn't it?" Molly approached his side, drying her hands with a towel as she looked at the picture in his hand. "Though I'd say we're due for another vacation soon. At least a long weekend getaway." She leaned up and kissed his cheek, then turned to finish preparing breakfast. "I still can't believe you insisted we follow John and Mary on their honeymoon!"

"I only wanted to make sure they stayed out of trouble," he countered. His brows knitted in confusion. He didn't remember the wedding or the vacation, how had he known that?

Molly only chuckled from across the room as she loaded two plates up with food. "Trouble is your middle name, Sherlock. They would have been fine without us. You're just afraid of being alone."

Alone? He never had to fear of being alone as long as Molly was by his side. He turned towards the kitchen to tell her so, but she wasn't there. She'd disappeared, as had the breakfast she had made. No trace of her presence was left. Instead, his beakers and experiments littered the table and surrounding counters. He looked towards the living room, but her chair, her couch, her curtains had all disappeared. Only his furniture remained... nothing of hers, and nothing of John's. The pictures on the mantle were no longer there. The only thing that remained was his skull.

_You're just afraid of being alone._

The words echoed in his bare apartment. The bounced off the walls and through his own skull.

_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._

That used to be true. That used to be his mantra. He had been alone his entire life, really. He really hadn't had friends before John, though he knew Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade... Molly, long before they had met. His relationship with everyone else had changed drastically after his budding friendship with the doctor. And now John was leaving. He was getting married and moving out and leaving him. Everything would be different.

_Sentiment is a chemical defect._

And that's what it all boiled down to, wasn't it? Sentiment? He had been a fool to allow John and the others to get as close as they have. His best friend was leaving him, the rest would follow suit shortly after.

_You're just afraid of being alone._

...

Sherlock gasped, sitting up quickly in his bed. His door was shut tight, his dressing gown thrown over the stool like normal, and he could not smell anything unusual in the air. He rubbed his eyes, groaning. It had all been a dream then. He hadn't dreamt that vividly in a long, long time.

So John was still living here then. He hadn't gotten married yet. Molly would be back in her own flat. There would be no romantic pictures waiting for him on the mantle. Nothing had changed. Everything was still normal.

Not for long, though. John would eventually marry, and would move out to begin his life elsewhere. And Sherlock would indeed be left alone. Except...

Was that what his dream was trying to tell him? To replace John with Molly? She certainly seemed to have filled the void in 221B that John had left. But she had done so much more than just that. Sherlock remembered seeing the happy look on his face in the dream-wedding photo. The contented feeling he got when seeing the picture of he and Molly in front of the Eiffel Tower. She had not only filled the gap John left behind, she had filled Sherlock's life with happiness.

Sherlock cursed at himself, kicking the covers away and covering his face with his hands. It was a dream, a simple, realistic dream and nothing more. He should not allow any ridiculous thoughts cloud his mind. Sighing, there was one thing he was sure of, he realized.

He didn't want to be alone, sentiment damn him.

* * *

_A/N: I was trying to piece together John's reaction, but neither he nor Sherlock were cooperating. I thought of having Sherlock go to the morgue to talk to Molly, but nothing was coming. If I continue this train of thought, it will probably be in a separate sequel. Or I just leave this as a hanging one shot. What do you think? Thoughts and reviews are always appreciated! :)_


	2. John

_A/N: I was going to leave the first chapter alone as a one shot, but the response was too good, and you convinced me otherwise. John finally sat down and cooperated, and hopefully our favorite pathologist will do the same next chapter..._

_Disclaimer: Still not mine :)_

* * *

John rolled over in his bed, reaching out to the other side, noting with slight disappointment that it was empty. As he slowly came to his senses, he could smell something sweet wafting through the air. He smiled into his pillow; a half empty bed in the morning would be worth it if Mary was cooking up one of her treats.

He stretched, wishing the stiff mattress gave him a bit more support... hang on, stiff mattress? He wasn't in Mary's flat, with her plush mattress and soft pillows. He was still in 221B. But Mary had refused to cook in his flat, siting Sherlock's hazardous experiments were dangerous to any meal she might create. He couldn't blame her. He'd be a bit nervous to eat anything that came out of that kitchen. He wondered why Mary changed her mind...

He sat up quickly as a burnt smell overcame the sweet one. Mary was visiting her brother up north for a few days. It wasn't Mary cooking, or attempting to cook, judging by the scent coming into his room now. He groaned as he covered his face with his hands.

Why was Sherlock trying to cook?

With a sigh, he rolled out of bed, throwing open his door and rushing down the stairs. As he turned the corner to the kitchen, a small wave of black smoke hit him square in the face.

"Sherlock!" he coughed, waving the smoke away as he entered the kitchen. His flatmate was busy mixing something in a bowl, either unaware or, more likely, ignoring the fact that whatever was in the pan was on fire. John grabbed the pan and threw whatever was remaining into the sink, throwing on the cold water. He sighed in relief as the flames quickly disappeared. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Sherlock half turned to face him, his face blank. "I was making us breakfast," he responded, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

John stared at him in sheer disbelief. He glanced around the kitchen, surprised at what lay before him. A pan was still smoking from the sink with what seemed to be burnt pancake mixture. Sherlock was whisking what appeared to be eggs in a bowl, though John could spot quite a few pieces of eggshells in the mix. At least Sherlock had purchased a container of pre-cut fruit. Even John could handle chopping a few strawberries or apples, and while he knew Sherlock had experience handling knives, he was wary of how Sherlock could potentially mess that up as well.

"I can see that," John muttered. He rubbed his eyes, not particularly looking forward to cleaning this mess up. "And _why_ were you trying to cook breakfast?"

Sherlock turned his back to John once more, though the egg mixture sat forgotten. "Can't someone make a meal for his friend?"

John felt his shoulders drop. He had an idea of what this could be about, though he couldn't be completely sure. It had something to do with Mary and the fact that, in three weeks time, he'd be moving out of 221B. While John couldn't say he thought Sherlock disliked Mary, he certainly held something against her. He treated her with more respect than any of his previous girlfriends, which John was grateful for, but Mary had something to do with that, of course. She was witty, wittier than any girl he had dated before, and though her wit didn't quite match Sherlock's (then again, who's did?), she surprised Sherlock with her comebacks. Still, discussions of Mary or John's future away from 221B never seemed to bode well with Sherlock, and eventually John stopped all attempts at talking to him about it.

That time seemed to have ended.

"Here, dump that down the sink. Let me put the kettle on. I think it's time you and I had a little chat."

* * *

Sherlock fidgeted in his chair uncomfortably, his tea forgotten on the table next to him. John sat across from him, sipping from his mug, waiting patiently for him to begin speaking. John had asked him what was going on, stating that it seemed very out of the ordinary for Sherlock to attempt to cook. When that elicited no response, John had asked if Sherlock needed to learn to cook for a case. Sherlock scoffed at the idea, calling it ridiculous and stupid.

"Then why did you feel the need to cook me breakfast?"

Sentiment. Sherlock hated the idea of it, and did not want to discuss it in the slightest. However, given his nightmare from the night before, perhaps John would be able to shed some light on the nuances he was feeling.

"There was a time that I operated alone," he began slowly. "Of course I had assistance with the more mundane things, but in general I kept to myself. Since your arrival..." he cleared his throat, unsure of how to put exactly what he was feeling into words. John knew he was out of his element and allowed him all the time he needed to say what was on his mind. "I have grown accustomed to your... companionship. Because of that, I have allowed the others to get close as well, much to my chagrin and to the delight of others."

Sherlock was referencing Moriarty, who, like Sherlock, had seen friendship as a weakness. Yet John could not help but wonder if others in Sherlock's life, like Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson as his pseudo-mother, felt happy that Sherlock was relying on others.

"I do not like change. It took me long enough to adjust to your constant presence, and I fear how long it will take me to adjust to being alone again."

"Hang on, Sherlock," John interrupted, holding his hand in front of him to stop his friend. "I'm not... leaving you alone. I'm getting married, not dying. And yes, I'm moving out, but I'll just be moving a few blocks down. I'll still be working on cases with you, keeping up the blog..."

"Will you, now?" Sherlock asked, almost cruelly as he raised an eyebrow. "You took a full-time job at the clinic. I doubt you'll be able to leave town at a moment's notice, not with a job and a wife waiting for you." Sherlock brought his hands to his face in his normal pose. "Besides, you and Mary will want to start a family soon, I'd imagine. Pulling you away from your child is not something even I would do."

Sherlock's final thought surprised John. He and Mary had discussed having children eventually, agreeing that it was something they both wanted. But that Sherlock was not attempting to convince him what a terrible idea all of that was was what surprised John. "You're right, of course," John agreed after a moment's pause. "Things will change. Things will start to be different. But Sherlock, even if I'm not working every case with you, even if I'm not living here anymore, I'm still your friend."

"_Friends_," Sherlock sneered. "What good does a friend do me?"

"A hell of of a lot," John countered. They were treading on familiar territory; John distinctly remembered the conversation they had while on the Baskerville case. Sherlock had sneered in a very similar fashion, claiming that he did not have any friends. John had been offended then and stormed off, but now he knew Sherlock well enough now to know that his hurtful words were coming from a place of fear and uncertainty. It was John's job now to make sure Sherlock would know he would not be alone. He sighed again, rubbing his eyes. If anything, this was good parenting practice. He tried to keep his chuckle to himself; truly, he had been practicing for years on Sherlock.

"People change, Sherlock. Whether you like it or not, change has to happen. We grow up. We want more out of our lives. I want to marry Mary, and yes, I want kids with her eventually. That can't happen if things don't change. But Sherlock, I'm not giving up this life for that one. It'll take time, but we'll figure out a balance. Things will work out, Sherlock." John leaned back in his chair, satisfied with his speech. Sherlock still held his hands under his chin, deep in thought, clearly processing everything that John had just said. "Besides, there must be something more that you want, too."

To John's complete astonishment, Sherlock's face turned slightly pink. Had it been anyone else, John would have not even noticed. Even so, John began to try to convince himself that it was just a trick of the light, that there could be no conceivable way that_ Sherlock Holmes_ found something to be embarrassed about. But as Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat, John realized that he was indeed right. Sherlock wanted something. Something embarrassing, at least to him. Something _sentimental..._

"I want..." he hesitated, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him. John waited, knowing that admitting anything sentimental would be difficult for him. "I want what you have. With Mary." John raised his eyebrow, unsure of exactly what Sherlock meant. He didn't have time to ponder it, however. Words spilled from Sherlock's lips as water does from the tap. "I want constant companionship. I want someone waiting for me at home. I want the smell of breakfast to wake me up in the morning. I want to hear her mindless humming in the other room. I want her wrapped up in my blankets in my bed. I want her to smile for me. I want..." Sherlock leaned forward, pausing momentarily as he took a steadying breath. "I want to be that someone for her, too."

"You want someone to love," John replied quietly.

Sherlock peered up at him through his unruly locks that had fallen over his face. "Is that what that is?"

"Pretty much, yeah," John chuckled. "Love isn't the sweeping declarations or the grand gestures. It's what happens after the effect wears off."

"Be honest, John," Sherlock said quietly. His eyes had fallen back to the floor, and he seemed almost afraid to say whatever was on his mind. "Do you think I am incapable of love?"

"I've never thought you were incapable of anything," he answered immediately. "I must admit I'm a bit surprised... who is she?"

"What?"

"You must have someone in mind; you wouldn't be going on about wanting to express sentiment with someone if you hadn't already pictured yourself with her," John replied. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, attempting his usual confident posture, but failing miserably. "And it is a_ her,_" John continued, not perturbed by the glare he was receiving. "You just said so yourself. It's not Irene Adler; she's not really the domestic type, and you know that. Molly Hooper."

Sherlock's eyes flashed at the mention of her name. "How did you...?"

"A simple deduction, Sherlock," John smirked. He laughed as Sherlock shared his smile.

"Obvious?"

"As clear as day," agreed John. "She's the only other woman you've given any sort of attention, save for Mrs. Hudson, but I don't see romance there. And if you're talking about someone sharing a happy, quiet life with you, I don't think there's a better match for you out there. God knows Molly has the patience of a saint, particularly when it comes to you. And she's already proven herself to you..."

"Many times over," Sherlock agreed. "But..."

"No buts, Sherlock."

"No, John. There are," Sherlock said sternly. "I've hurt her in the past. What's to say that I won't hurt her again?"

John sighed again, rubbing his hands together in frustration. "You _have_ hurt her in the past, yes. Make it up to her. As for hurting her again in the future, _don't._"

"How...?"

"Think before you speak, Sherlock. And ask her. Tell her what you're trying to do. If you're willing to change for her, willing to grow up a bit, let her know. Guarantee she'll be happy to help."

The pair remained silent for a few minutes: Sherlock thinking things through, John waiting to see if his friend needed any more assistance. At last, John slapped his knees as he stood, catching Sherlock's attention as he did. "I'm going to start cleaning up the mess you made. Care to help?"

"In a minute," Sherlock acquiesced. He sunk back into his mind palace as John turned to make his way into the kitchen. "And John?"

"Hm?" he replied, turning around.

"I'd appreciate it if you kept this conversation between us."

John chuckled, turning on the faucet in the sink. "And miss the opportunity to let the world know Sherlock Holmes is just a sap like the rest of us?" He paused, watching the water take the burnt remnants of pancakes down the sink. "Actually, you know what? I think I will keep that to myself for now."

He was graced with a quick smile from Sherlock, who then stood to assist his friend. The two worked side by side, piling dishes into the sink, wiping down the counters, trying to make the place as presentable as possible. As John wiped down a bit of spilled egg from the counter, he caught a whiff of something one normally doesn't find in the kitchen. "Sherlock, you did clean the pans before you tried to cook with them, right?"

"Of course."

John spotted a large bottle standing nearby. "With rubbing alcohol?" he cried.

Sherlock merely shrugged, continuing to struggle with scrubbing some burnt mess on the stove. "It's a disinfectant."

John laughed, a deep belly laugh that one only does when something incredulous happens. Sherlock looked up, alarmed, but couldn't help cracking a smile at his friend's antics. The two laughed until tears fell from their eyes, and it took quite awhile for the two to stop. "Ah, I must be right," John gasped, turning back to his work, giggles escaping now and then. "Molly will definitely need the patience of a saint."

* * *

_A/N: Again, thank you so much for your wonderful reviews for last chapter, and they are, of course, highly appreciated for this chapter as well!_


	3. Molly

_A/N: Last chapter is up! Thank you so much for all of your wonderful and kind words :) They are always appreciated! And now it's time for Molly's turn..._

_Disclaimer: Of course Sherlock doesn't belong to me, but if they're are any journalists out there looking to embarrass both the fans and the people who do an amazing job creating the show by using fanfiction, give me a ring, will you? I don't think I'll let you use the story, but I have some other choice words for you..._

* * *

Molly Hooper was confused.

It didn't happen that often. She was a very smart and very quick witted girl. She'd be the first to admit she often tripped over her own tongue and fumbled her words. She opted to stay quiet during group conversations, especially with people she didn't know well. But whether or not she was speaking her mind, she always had an inkling of what was going on.

Not this time.

She leaned back in her chair, observing the man in front of her. She couldn't quite believe that Sherlock Holmes was sitting across from her in a very nice restaurant. He was studying the menu intently, remaining mostly silent, though he had told her she'd enjoy the grilled snapper here. Snapper was one of the only fish she would eat, yet how Sherlock knew that she wasn't quite sure. They had rarely shared meals before, and only in Bart's cafeteria, which never boasted many diverse types of food.

He had slipped quietly into the morgue near the end of her shift. She had been surprised to see him; he usually burst through the door like a man on fire, demanding to see a body or to have her assistance in the lab. She had nearly dropped the set of vials she had been carrying when she heard his baritone voice from behind her.

"Hello, Molly," he had said quietly. Sherlock had quickly grabbed the vials from her as she jumped, setting them down gently on the table.

"Oh, Sherlock," she gasped, her hand on her chest. "You scared me. I didn't hear you come in." The pair had stood there awkwardly for a few moments and Molly waited for Sherlock to ask something of her. "What can I help you with?" she finally asked.

"I was wondering if... if you might accompany me to dinner," he mumbled.

Molly's eyebrows shot up. Of all the things Sherlock could possibly ask her, this was somewhere near the very bottom of the list. "Sorry, I... is this for a case?" Sherlock looked at her questioningly, seemingly confused by her confusion. "John... he's probably busy, right? With Mary."

"I'm not on a case," he said quickly. His blue-green eyes pierced her honey colored ones as she racked her brain for a suitable response.

" why are you asking me to dinner?"

"Isn't that what you do when you wish to get to become better acquainted with someone?" he asked. Molly knitted her brows, trying to understand what he was asking. They had known each other for years, and he could probably deduce anything he wanted to know about her. Not to mention he had stayed at her flat for a few days after the fall. While she would never say she understood the enigmatic ball of energy that was Sherlock Holmes, she would venture to say she knew him better than most.

But before she could respond in any way, Sherlock spoke again. "I was hoping you'd join me for dinner because... well, I... I wish to spend more time with you."

She searched his face, his eyes, his gaze... looking for anything that might hold his true reason for asking her out. She could find none, yet she didn't know if that comforted her or frightened her. Sherlock was, after all, the master of disguises, and he could easily disguise his true motive. Sighing, she discovered she didn't particularly care. She would always have a soft spot for Sherlock, and would probably always give in to whatever he asked.

"Of course, Sherlock. I'd love to. Um... I'll need some time to get ready. You know, change and... I don't particularly want to smell like morgue..."

"I'll come round at seven then," he nodded. "I, uh," he cleared his throat, and Molly swore there was a faint color on his cheeks. "I look forward to tonight." And without another word, he turned and left the morgue, leaving Molly standing there, dazed and confused.

That was several hours ago. True to his word, Sherlock had knocked on her door promptly at seven o'clock, and the pair ambled down a few blocks to a restaurant that was out of Molly's price range. They sat near the window, their table dotted with candles. The entire atmosphere was very romantic, with the low lighting and soft music playing. Normally, Molly would be flattered and a bit overwhelmed.

But now Molly Hooper was just confused.

The waiter approached and asked what each of them would like, and without a second thought, Molly immediately responded with the snapper. The barest hint of a smile graced Sherlock's mouth as he requested the same and a bottle of wine. The waiter nodded and left, leaving the pair alone once again.

Without the menus in front of them, they had nothing to pretend to give their interest to. Sherlock opened and closed his mouth, as if he wanted to say something and thought better of it. Molly furrowed her eyebrows once more and sighed.

"Why did you ask me to dinner, Sherlock?"

There was no mistaking the blush that crossed Sherlock's face. "Like I said before, I wish to spend more time with you."

"But why?" Molly asked earnestly. "We've known each other for years, and you've never approached me unless you needed something." He looked down at his hands, fidgeting uncomfortably. She had never seen him so unsure of himself; he was always so full of vibrato. She was vaguely reminded of a shy, little child on his first day of school. "Sherlock..."

"John's getting married," he said hurriedly, not looking up from his lap. She waited for him to continue, to explain further, but as he glanced up, she could see he expected that to be the complete explanation. As always, he was a few steps ahead of her, leaving no trail for her to follow his logic.

"So... what? You want me to be the replacement for John now?"

"_No,_" he responded. There was an urgency in his voice that was all too familiar to Molly, though he had only used it regarding cases. As he raised his chin, she could see a look of... _desperation_ in his eyes. It alarmed Molly, seeing Sherlock so off balance. But she waited for him to continue, unwilling to derail him from whatever train of thought he was struggling to hold on to. "I explained this all to John..." he muttered, but whether it was directed to Molly or himself she wasn't sure. He took a deep breath and forced himself to look into her eyes. "I did not like companionship. I preferred to work alone and kept everyone else at arm's length. When Mrs Hudson required me to find a roommate, I nearly left Baker Street."

Molly remembered Sherlock before John came around. He had been even more terse and difficult to work with. He only waited for others to catch up once he had reached the end of whatever mystery he had been working on. He had also gotten everything he had wanted from Molly through belittling her. While she had always known that he had only wanted something from her every time he charmed her, she always acquiesced, fearing he'd return to his condescending ways. And of course, it was a very nice change, even if it didn't mean anything to Sherlock.

She hadn't quite realized until now how much he had changed after he and John had become flatmates. Until they had become friends.

"You used the past tense," she realized. "You _did_ not like, you _kept_ everyone away."

He smiled, only slightly but it was there. "You lot have grown on me," he teased. Molly felt a surge of warmth at the statement, knowing that he had included her. "I, erm," he cleared his throat again, clearly uncomfortable with relaying his thoughts. "John is getting married," he repeated, his face fully flushed now. "And with that, he is moving out, beginning a new life with his fiance. And while I have been reassured our friendship will endure, things will undoubtedly change."

He slowly reached his arm across the table so that his hand rested in the middle. He shook slightly as he put his palm face up, and Molly was reminded of when he suffered from withdrawal. Worried thoughts that he was using again filled her head, remembering the agony he had gone through. But he displayed no other symptoms of using again, so she quickly dismissed those thoughts.

He looked up anxiously at her, and she realized he was reaching out _to her._ Setting down her wine glass, she wiped her damp hand on her napkin and gently placed it in Sherlock's waiting hand, her eyes never leaving his. He slowly wrapped his fingers around hers. "And," he quietly continued. "I want things to change... between us as well."

"What?" Molly exclaimed, nearly jumping out of her seat in surprise. She didn't let go of his hand, though, and gently squeezed it to reassure him she wasn't leaving.

"I'm not good at this... I'm not good at processing my own feelings, let alone communicating them," he muttered, staring down at their joined hands. "John recommended that I try... he thought you may be willing to help me."

"I am," she urged. "I'm always willing to help you."

He smiled, his eyes meeting hers. "John's relationship with Mary is the only steady romantic relationship I've witnessed. My parents divorced when I was quite young and sent me to an all-boys private school. The vast majority of my potential client pool are those who think their significant other is cheating on them. Even those I surround myself... Mrs Hudson's husband was an abusive crook, Mrs Lestrade is constantly seen here and there with other men, and both Donovan and Anderson have spouses and yet they still see each other. I never saw the point in having any sort of relationship with someone if it was based on lies.

"But I see the way John acts around Mary, and how she acts around him. How he must text her every day he's away to let her know he's all right, how he asks her how her day was, how she took care of him when..." he paused. Molly squeezed his hand again. "It's perfectly annoying. But... I've found myself... jealous. It took me a while to understand what I've been feeling; I've never felt jealous before," he admitted.

She shifted her hand so her fingers linked with his. "And what were you jealous of?" she asked quietly, so quietly she barely heard herself. But Sherlock heard her. His eyes slowly travelled from their adjoined hands to her face, and she flushed at the warmth showing in his eyes.

"I want someone there for me, too," he whispered. "And... to be there for that someone as well. John says I'm looking for someone to love."

Molly felt her eyes widen at the statement. He wasn't saying he loved her yet, but... "And... me? You... what, want to fall in love with me?"

"Based off of John's explanation, I can't imagine the process would be too difficult," he said with a small smile, though his cheeks were still flushed. "I'm not convinced I'm not on my way already."

"But why me?" she asked. He had belittled her, ignored her, _hurt_ her. She was mousy Molly, the odd pathologist.

"I meant what I said a long time ago, Molly. You do count. You always have. And you always will. You have always been there for me, supported me, even when no one else could. John says love isn't about the grand gestures, but what happens after." Sherlock was surprised with how badly he wished to embrace her. It was an odd feeling, but he felt almost empty, and she was too far away on the other side of the table. "You have done nothing but stood by my side, even when I did not deserve it."

"'Love me when I least deserve it because that is when I really need it,'" Molly recited. She shook her head, biting her lip. "That's, uh... a Swedish proverb, I think."

He smiled, placing his other hand over hers. "I want to try, Molly. I'll need your help, your guidance... I'll make mistakes. You've had so much patience with me during these past few years. If you'll continue to have patience with me..."

Molly placed his hand over the one on top of hers and grinned. He gently lifted her second hand and pressed his lips to the back of her knuckles. "You're off to a pretty good start, I'll admit." Sherlock smiled wide, but before he could respond in anyway, the waiter returned to place their meal down in front of them. Molly jumped back, forgetting that they were in public, but smiled through her blush at Sherlock.

The pair ate in mostly silence, though it was comfortable. The chatted about St. Bart's, gossiped about Anderson and Donovan, laughed over various mishaps that happened at crime scenes. Once their plates were clean, their waiter hurried over and handed them dessert menus. Molly was pleased to see Sherlock scan it, considering each choice.

"What about the creme brulee?" he asked.

"Hmm..." she considered, biting her lip again. "I'm leaning towards the strawberry gelato, I think."

"Italian, then?"

Molly nodded. "I had a friend in uni who spent a semester in Rome. The way she talked about it... it just sounded like the time of her life."

"Have you ever been?" Sherlock asked.

She shook her head. "Never really travelled. I've always wanted to go, though."

Sherlock smiled. Paris or Rome, it didn't matter, as long as Molly was along on the adventure.

...

One year later, the pair spent a quiet Saturday night in, diligently unpacking her belongings and finding their rightful places in 221B Baker Street. A small, unadorned frame sat in the corner of the mantle, and held a simple picture of the two standing in front of the colosseum, she with a spoon of gelato in her mouth, and he with his lips pressed to the top her head.


End file.
